Private
by Everything and Anything
Summary: When Mr. Schue and his trusty troupe of Warbler and New Direction Private Investigators take on a new case, they never knew that it would, for better or for worse, turn each and every one of their worlds upside down.
1. Prologue

Hi! Anything and Everything here! Welcome to Private, my first fanfic. The idea for this fanfic came to me when I was thinking about how cool it would be if the Warblers and New Directions worked together. And kicked ass while they were at it. A few ideas later, here we are!  
>Private features of course, our beloved "Dalton Rockstars" and the "Losers" of WMHS. Other characters will eventually come into the story at some point. I haven't decided whether or not I'll add OCs, but it seems pretty unlikely. Please also note that, Private will not be following Glee continuity, but that, SOME Glee storylines will be used (in particular, the QuinnPuck/Beth storyline of Season 1).  
>Reviews (constructive criticism) are VERY welcome, because I want to learn how to improve and grow as a writer.<br>Now that all's been said and done (yes I like ABBA), I hope that you enjoy this fic.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>** I do not own Glee or the Private Series by James Patterson**

**Trigger(s): Violence (I should have added this label a long time ago; I'm sorry)**

**Prologue:**

With a low groan, Quinn Fabray rolled onto her side, feeling the toxic concoction of Pain, Despair and Anger pumping through her veins. The snicker from the darkness-cloaked figure only intensified its bitter taste. "WHERE IS IT?" Without waiting for an answer, the figure let loose with a bone-cracking kick. With a loud yelp, Quinn went flying backwards, a fresh blossom of Pain blooming in her ribs. With a gasp that caused all the detested flowers in her body to bloom once more, she raised herself onto one elbow, the metallic smell of blood rushing into her nostrils and overpowering her mind as she did. The smell of her own blood.

Quinn raised her head to glare at her attacker with all the hate in her body, earning herself a mere chuckle. "Always so stubborn, aren't you Quinn?" With a feral snarl, Quinn pounced forward, Fury and Adrenaline momentarily blocking out the horrible nectar of the Pain flowers. _Just give me a chance. Please, God, give me a chance. PLEASE! _With a laugh that would have chilled the Devil himself, the figure pranced backwards as Quinn's body merely landed on the wooden floor with a sickening _thump_. With a maniacal grin that would have matched Hannibal Lecter's in intensity, the figure bent down and mercilessly gripped Quinn's cheeks, forcing her to look into their eyes. With a whisper as chilling as the wind in Winter, the figure spoke, "Where. Is. It?"

Quinn grimaced, the sweet taste of Fury and Adrenaline disappearing from her mouth, overcome by the foul nectar of Pain. The fingers bruising her face tightened their vice-like hold, as her attacker pulled her closer so their bloodied noses touched. Quinn gagged at the contact, the sudden breath ripping through her body with the intensity of the San Francisco earthquake. The voice came again, slashing through the mist of Pain and Anger. "I'm only going to ask you one more time. Where. Is. It?"

The only answer that was given was a cruel ghost of a smile, a smile that hid secrets. With a snarl, the figure released Quinn, then without warning, slapped her brutally across the face, the face which was already bloodied and bruised. With an inaudible groan, Quinn slumped to the floor and onto her knees, shoulders hunched over in pain. Out of the corner of her swollen eyes, Quinn saw the turning kick dash through the air, the kick that would crack her skull and end her life. _Like I'll go down without a fight. _Without thinking, her body reacted, flinging itself at her opponent.

With a surprised _oomph_, attacker and attacked fell backwards, crashing to the unforgiving floor as one. On hearing her enemy's bellow of pain, Quinn smiled, energy and hope flowing back into her limbs. _Thank you God._ A palm to her face violently forced her back into reality.

As raging animals, both the attacker and attacked fought, desperate to get the upper hand. Over and over were their roles swapped. **Attacked** to attacker. **Attacker** to attacked. **Attacked** to attacker. Then as suddenly, and as quickly as it had started, it ended. Brutally.

_Next chapter:  
>What's going on? Who was the attacker? What were they after? And most importantly, who will survive? We take a step back in time as we find out the answer to those questions AND the series of events which turn our heroes and heroines' worlds upside-down in more ways than one. <em>


	2. Earlier, Much, Much Earlier

Hey guys! Everything and Anything here!  
>First of all, I would like to apologise for the delay in the uploads, so please accept my gift of an extra-long chapter.<br>Second of all, I would like to thank everyone who gave me a review or/and a message of support. You guys keep me motivated!  
>Finally, I would like to dedicate this fic to those who need a light of love and safety in their lives. Stay strong you guys, because life never gives you anything that you can't handle.<br>So now that I've finished my (very long) author's note, I hope that you enjoy this (very long – and I mean _long_) chapter!

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own any part of Glee or the Private Series by James Patterson**

**Earlier, Much, Much Earlier:**

"Now listen you gavel-pounding perfectionist!"  
>"Oh that's rich coming from <em><strong>YOU<strong>_**!**"  
>"But at least I'm the <em><span>good kind<span>_ of perfectionist! You're just a CONTOL FREAK!"  
>"Must I repeat my previous arguments to why <em><strong>YOU'RE<strong>_ THE CONTROL FREAK?"  
>"Just admit that you're jealous of <em><strong>MY<strong>_ talent!"  
>Kurt Hummel sighed, blowing the fragile strings of steam from his coffee into nothingness. He closed his eyes, kneading them with perfectly manicured fingers, ignoring the headache which was slowly crawling out of its mental cavern. <em>Someday, I'm going to learn to arrive at the same time as everybody else. And not a second earlier.<em> As a groan escaped from the realms of his throat, Kurt allowed his body to slump down in the chair, the smell of burnt coffee beans swarming his nostrils as he did. He let out another groan as he gingerly pushed the Styrofoam cup and its foul contents away. _Someday I'm going to learn to NOT get a cup of coffee from the office pantry._ He felt a gentle breath stoke his neck, a chuckle duetting with the remnants of his groan.  
>"Rise and shine Kurt."<br>He opened his eyes and turned, a smile of exhaustion and happiness tugging on his peony lips. A dark haired male stood before him, curly locks rigorously parted and gelled into a perfect coif. His emerald-honey eyes sparkled with pleasure, a sheepish grin spread across his handsome face. And in his pianist hands, he held a cardboard container, the humble thrones of two cups of coffee. _**Real coffee.**_ As the waltz of his heartbeat sped up to a tango, Kurt's shy smile evolved into a grin wide enough to mirror the male's. _Someday I'll remember to buy coffee from that new café…_

As Blaine Anderson stumbled into the not-so-quiet office, he felt the familiarity sweep over him, drowning him in memories and wonder. With a deep breath, he took an unsure step forward, his leather book bag swinging against his hip as he did. _I wonder what I missed._ After closing a lengthy case in Westerville (which involved uncovering hedge fund details, extramarital affairs, divorces and a _very_ dirty family history in one of Ohio's most affluent families), Blaine was glad to settle back into the comfortable yet not-so-predictable routine of office life. _The conversations. The banter. The gossip. The camaraderie. _He winced as he rounded the corner and into the meeting room. _The Berryheights fights._ He felt the liquid gold jump in their flimsy capsules at the voices, sending his surprise to a whole new level. _Have they been doing vocal training while I was away? Yeesh. The things people do to win._ With a sigh that was snuffed out by a high pitched scream - _How did she do that?_ - he scanned the remainder of the room. The hummingbird residing in his ribcage intensified the flapping of its wings as his emerald-honey eyes settled on the figure hunched over the meeting table, the figure with a Styrofoam cup of the horrible office coffee resting between his limp fingers. The chestnut-haired male in the McQueen sweater, knee high Doc Martens and black skintight jeans, with the bored yet sparkling eyes. Eyes that resembled the seas in Summer, in every way possible; ever-changing blue and green, full of life and impossibly brilliant and beautiful_._ Blaine felt a grin pull the corners of his mouth upwards, the wings of the hummingbird still beating fiercely. _There you are._

"Dude! I'm gonna kick your ass!"  
>"You gotta catch up first!"<br>Noah Puckerman allowed a growl to escape through his clenched teeth as he darted up the concrete steps. On all days, the stupid elevator _had_ to be broken and he'd been forced to climb the stupid fire escape. _Why. WHY does that office have to be on the sixth floor? That's just ghetto. _To top it off, Mackenzie had arrived and promptly challenged him to a stair climbing competition. Which would have been absolutely alright, if _he_ hadn't taken off the second he had challenged him. That was _his_ role. Puck felt his heart hammer as he lunged up the first flight of steps, staccato echoes marking his progress. Halfway up the second flight, he pressed his head to the steel handrail, grateful that he had a Mohawk. _Why do dudes even have long hair anyway? It's just dumb. I mean, no offense, but having sweat in your eyes? No freaking way._ He risked a glance up. Mackenzie was already halfway up the fourth flight, a smirk planted on his face. Puck leered at him. _Nobody messes with the Puckzilla and gets away with it._ With that, he swung his battered backpack around to the front of his body, rummaging through his contents as he continued upwards. _Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Cla-BOOM._

David Mackenzie sighed as he walked towards the fire escape, polished tiles clicking under his shoes with every annoyed step. Of all days, the elevator _had_ to be "under maintenance and currently unavailable", it had to be on the day when he had a messenger bag _full_ of _thick_ files to carry. _Why does the maintenance __never__ give us some sort of notice before they do their stuff?_ As he pushed open the door, he noticed a familiar figure at the base of the stairs. David allowed a smile to grow on his face. There was no mistaking the figure with the Mohawk, the battered backpack, leather jacket, faded jeans and sneakers. Puck returned the smile, and then raised his hand. "What's up Mackenzie?"  
>"What's up Puck?" David returned the high five, with a grin. It was still a wonder to the other occupants of the building to how the resident bad boy and the prep-school kid were such good friends. David's grin grew wider as he remembered the shocked look on their faces when they had bro-hugged each other. <em>Call of Duty ladies. Call of Duty.<em> He raised an eyebrow as his dark eyes panned the grey, lifeless landscape before him, an idea running through the fine workings of his mind. He turned to Puck, a grin lighting up his face as he did. "Race you up the stairs?" Without waiting for an answer, he took off.

Quinn Fabray groaned as she sauntered down the empty street, sandals tapping against the skin of the sidewalk. It was early, with a majority of the shops still asleep. It was early, with the light from the sun scattering in the clouds of the empty skies. It was early, with the easy breeze combing her short blonde hair into its natural shape and fluffing up the skirt of her pattered dress. It was early, allowing unwanted thoughts to buzz through her head, thoughts that were usually kept in place by the chatter and gossip of the streets. _Beth. Beth's back. Back. In Ohio. With Shelby. And God knows who else. _Quinn felt her teeth grit as she continued down the street, familiar in its layout, unfamiliar in its silence and peace. Unfamiliar as the fact that she - Quinn Lucy Fabray – had had a baby. _Not just any baby. __Your__ baby. Your baby Beth. _Quinn felt her nails sink into the fake leather of her purse. She really had to move on. _From your past or to your future?_ She grimaced, pulling the edges of her loose cardigan around her body. _The body which gave birth to your baby._ She quickened her steps, praying that the fast-paced tapping would drone out the unwelcome thoughts. They didn't.

Sam Evans ran down the path, battered sneakers pounding at the pavement. He felt his sling bag drill into his back, a painful pedometer for his steps. He risked a glance at his watch. Five minutes. He picked up his speed, the fingers of motion picking at his blonde fringe, dragging them downwards until they covered his line of vision. A memory pooled in his brain; of the time Brittany had called him a sheepy-dog and asked him if he had a collar, so he didn't get taken to the pound. _I don't know what sheepy-dogs are, but they sound totally awesome. _Sam glanced at his watch again. Four minutes. _Damn. _He quickened his pace. _Man,_ _how do those buses arrive on time anyway? _He felt the rumbling roar of a beast from behind him, – if giant white buses counted - covering him with the dirt of the streets as it passed. Shocked, Sam stood motionless on the street, fingers unconsciously fingering his blue hoodie. He peered through his – now brownish-blonde – locks to see a smirk plastered on one of the commuter's faces. With a scowl, he started running once more, determined to make it to the station before the monster did. _Alright buddy. This just got personal._

Brittany Pierce sailed through the empty streets on her bicycle, feeling the wind tug playfully at her ponytail. _The wind must really like me a lot. I mean, it pulls at my hair and it really likes lifting up my skirt so…_ Brittany stopped her bike, smiling at the empty air. Her honey ponytail swayed to and fro, the only sign that it had been kissed by the wind earlier. _Maybe the wind doesn't like me anymore. _She felt the corners of her lips turn downwards into a pout. Suddenly, a car honked at her from behind. "Move it girl!"  
>With a sigh, Brittany dismounted her bike, her shoelaces and skirt catching on the bedazzled seat. Bracing herself, she slipped her fingers underneath the frame of the bike and began to drag it sideways, by force. "Come on Sir Bickingham, I'll give you candy if you move!" She gestured to the tote bag hanging from the handlebars. The bike refused to budge. Brittany frowned. <em>Why does Sir Bickingham hate me too?<em>  
>"You idiot! What the hell do you think you're doing?"<br>Brittany turned her head towards the voice, the ice of anger freezing up her blue eyes. A bald, obese man stood behind her, mouth wide open in shock and frustration, pale body bursting out of an off-white suit. Behind the man was a cringe-worthy, _bright_ yellow car. The kind of yellow that was so bright, it was painful to simply glance at, even on a dark cloudy day. "I. Am. Not. An. Idiot." The phrase was growled through gritted teeth. "I am a Unicorn." Brittany's eyes glanced over the man, before softening. "Are you an egg?"

Artie Abrams rolled across the tarmac, the wheels on his wheelchair bouncing along the bumps of the path. The chill of the morning air pinched at his sweater, struggling to find a way to nip at his skin. He ignored the feeling and kept rolling along, a miniscule backpack dancing in his lap. He grinned, remembering the face of the drunken monster who had thought him an easy target in a free-for-all bar brawl. _That's why you never underestimate your opponents bro. _A crack in the pavement tugged at his left wheel, sending a tremor through the frame of the wheelchair. Instinctively, Artie shifted some of his body weight to the right, breezing through the obstacle without even a shudder. Ever since, the 'Rosita's Roadhouse Rumble' case, his instincts had sharpened until they were rapier deadly. As an added plus, his body (well upper body) had toned up with the 'Booty Camp' and training sessions that Mr. Schue had organised for them. _At least something good came out of that fiasco._ His smile grew wider as the sunlight peeked through the clouds and cast its glow onto the world. _It was time to get rolling._

Jeff Michaels stumbled out of the bus, satchel catching on seats and shoulders of annoyed commuters as he all but fell into the street, limbs and straightened blonde bangs akimbo. He heard a sneer as the door hissed shut behind him, locking him in the outside world. He shot the scowling driver a glare, before courtesy forced him to step off the road and onto the sidewalk, freeing the animal from its standstill. As the still-scowling driver released his brakes and continued on his route in a huff, Jeff allowed a smile to light his face. _Hope you arrive late to your next stop pal! _His only reply was a cloud of dust. Disgusted, he spat, feeling the grit coat his lips and tongue. _Revenge._ _What a way to start the morning._ The smile now replaced with a frown, he stalked down the street, the sudden screech of tires and an equally sudden torrent of abuse yanking him out of his temper-induced haze. Pivoting on the soles of his combat boots, he turned and faced the turmoil before him, face breaking out into a smile as he did; the bus had nearly collided with a _very_ sunny car, with both drivers now engaged in a passionate yell-fest. Jeff did nothing to stop the grin on his face as he continued on his way. _Revenge._ _What a way to start the morning._

Nick Stevens hurried through the crowded park, dew-damp dirt clinging to the edge of his jeans. He heard the screams of children, the curses of the careless, the groans of the hungover, the sighs of lovers and the pounding of his heart. _Serenity Park my ass!_ _Why do I even bother taking this shortcut anyway? _A cyclist barreled by him, forcing him to jackknife out of the way. And trip over a barrier. And land in a manmade –or was it child made? - puddle. On his ass. Nick stood up, gingerly wiping himself off. Ignoring the smirks of the onlookers, he carefully drew his black fringe away from his midnight eyes and continued on, fuming silently. _There can be worse ways to start the day…_ He felt the wetness of the muddy water seep through his layers of clothing. _Yeah right! Like what? _He quickly spied the – surprisingly unscathed – watch on his wrist, panic coursing through his veins as he picked up his speed. _Like arriving late to work for the tenth time in a row? _His shoes clipped a layer of the uneven path, sending him sprawling onto the ground once more, ripping his jacket and earning himself a round of mock applause. _Like making a fool of yourself in front of the general population? _

Mike Chang gunned his motorcycle down the (mostly) empty road, feeling satisfaction as the wind buffeted against his padded jumpsuit. Through his darkened visor, his eyes scanned the remaining stretch of road before he swerved expertly into an empty parking space. Ignoring the angry cries of shopkeepers (who had obviously decided to show up at _that _moment), Mike nudged down the kickstand, his ears filling with the complaints of the shopkeepers that they would lose customers because of "stupid bikie scum". Tugging his helmet off, he felt static run its fingers through his hair, spiking it up. He heard collective gasps and giggles erupt from some of the – undeniably – female shopkeepers. _At least this shuts some of them up. _Only some. "Oy!"  
>As Mike dismounted the bike, he stood to find a beefy male towering above him, the smell of raw meat rolling off his body like too-strong cologne. <em>No guesses who this guy is. <em>"I'm the butcher around here." _No shit Sherlock.  
><em>"And I do a lot more than just chop dead animals, you got that bikie scum?"  
>Before the meat tower could utter another word, Mike made his move and silenced him.<p>

Tina Cohen-Chang waltzed down the waking lane, pirouetting on her flats as she passed the opening lives. She smiled as she watched the world around her wake, ready to take on a new day. _How can anyone ever rush mornings? _As she finished yet another swirl, she felt a foreign body slam into her, upsetting her balance and knocking her to the ground. She lifted her head, watching the lean figure running off with her half-moon bag. Anger coursed through her veins as she got to her feet, flying after the thief. _Don't underestimate me you jerk. You don't know what I can do. _Despite the seven second advantage, the gap between the hopeful thief and the furious girl was closing rapidly. Seven seconds. Six seconds. Five seconds. Four seconds. The thief, eyes wide with astonishment and terror shoved his way through the thickening crowd with growing desperation. Three seconds. Two seconds. One second. The thief screeched, a parrot in a flock of female canaries, as he swung the half-moon bag in a frenzied arc. Zero. Without wasting any breath, Tina lunged, arms wrapping around the doomed criminal's waist, before bringing him down in a spectacular tackle, stunning those who saw. With a hiss, she yanked her bag away from trembling fingers, quickly checking its contents. Satisfied, Tina leaned to whisper in the man's ear. "I suggest that you don't attempt anything like that again okay? Ever. Otherwise, there will be _dire_ consequences."  
>As the dirtbag gave a shaky nod, Tina stood up, brushed off her dark skirt, and continued her freestyle dance once more, parting the sea of spectators as easily as a flimsy curtain.<p>

Santana Lopez strutted down the quiet lane, high heels making metronome-style beats with every well-defined step. A smirk on her lips, she stroked her hip seductively, taking care to make sure her hand brushed against her bare legs. She felt the movement from behind her, rather than hear or see it. _Gotcha sucker. _As the figure lunged at her, all but drooling, she lifted her right leg and slammed it into her would-be attacker's stomach in a vicious back kick. The result was a crumpled bag of a human being on his knees in the garbage-littered lane throwing up the contents of his stomach, and a young woman standing over him, body radiating off smugness and victory. _It's always the same with you guys. Flash a little skin, and they're at your mercy. _The figure at her feet unrolled itself to shoot a glare at her. She shot an angelic smile back. Before the man could attack her again, Santana dashed forward, hands slipping in and out of her clutch like water, before seizing the man's hands roughly. "You pervs are just too easy you know?" She slapped one end of a pair of handcuffs onto her captive's wrist then chained the other to a small, yet sturdy drainage pipe, a dull ring resounding throughout the alley as she did._ Good luck surviving in this hellhole._ As the man groaned and struggled to gasp out profanities, Santana stepped back and smiled sweetly before leaving him in the alley. _Anymore of you want to get up in my grille?_

Thad Johnson hurried down the steps of the staircase, the melodramatic thumps of shoe leather on cement marking his process. As the debris of the streets mashed beneath his soles, he sighed. _Off all days the bus could have been late, it had to be TODAY! The day when I have to carry a __duffel bag__ to work! A freaking __duffel bag!_ He winced as he felt the thick corners of its contents dig eagerly into his shoulder blades. _Okaaaay. Maybe I should have taken Jeff's advice and carried it on my shoulder and not on my back. _Thad winced once more, this time, when the too-short straps of the bag dug into the flesh of his shoulders. _Oh well. Can't change what's already been done. _Then with a triumphant grin, he sprang off the final steps, enjoying the stroking fingers of motion-caused wind through his ebony hair, before landing perfectly on the mostly-empty sidewalk. Or not so perfectly. With an _oomph,_ Thad stumbled to the right, the weight of the bag working with gravity to upset his near-perfect balance. As he righted himself, chest heaving, he found himself thanking – yes thanking! - Mr. Schue and his outrageous training ideas. _I guess that booty camp wasn't __that__ big a waste after all. _Then the weight of his problems settled back on his shoulders. _Who knew files and study material could be __such__ a killjoy? _

Finn Hudson trotted down the street, body _definitely_ not working to the beat of his mind. _Was it exit at the first corner or the second? Crap. I can't believe I forgot. _He skidded to a stop as a flash of green flashed in the corner of his brown eyes. _Wait, that was a landmark right? That evergreen tree? Did it mean keep going until the next street or go back to the one before it? Argh! This makes no sense! _As he paced, another splotch of green entered his vision. Then another. And another. And another. _Great! Of all the landmarks I could've picked, I had to pick one that's EVERYWHERE! _He stiffened as he felt a breeze breathe on his neck, the rustling of leaves heavy in his ears. _Wait. The trees are all in a row right? So that means that I either go to the street in front of it or the street behind it! Or something like that. Either way, I'm a genius! _As he began to sprint towards the next street, his joy-glazed eyes missed one crucial hint; the lone tree behind its row of brothers, sitting there like an evergreen flag, sitting in front of a heavily-searched-for building.

Lauren Zizes hopped off the train, laptop bag bouncing gently against her hip. _Tap this if you can suckers! _Her brunette hair bounced and shone as she made her way out of the station. _Hmmm, that Anderson kid's back today. Wonder if he got any gossip on the Ganver family; I __really__ need to update my Intel blog. _The thought was struck out of her mind the moment it was conjured. _Nah. There's no way the gossip isn't out and about by now. And besides, Anderson would never break the Private Confidentiality agreement. None of us would. Period. _She hummed as she walked, black tights warming under the caress of the morning sun. _I hope this means no cases today. I __really__ need to get home. But then again, no cases mean no work, and no work means no income, and no income means no money, and no money means no way of supporting myself or my family. _A pebble skipped playfully across the pavement as she toed it. _Wait, I have a retainer right? Which means that even with no cases, I'll still have some income! _Lauren mentally kicked herself. _What the hell am I even thinking? Even with a retainer, I'll still need the income from the cases. Just because I want to enjoy a beautiful day doesn't mean I should be thinking like this! No siree, this is not the way Lauren Zizes rolls. _With that, she picked up her pace. _Bring it bitches._

Mercedes Jones hopped off her motor scooter and released her waves of inky black hair from the teeth of the helmet. _Well that was quicker than I thought. _Her cedar eyes scanned the street, falling onto a 250cc Honda. She smiled. _Well at least someone's on time for once. _Her thoughts were shattered by a hammy hand reaching for her arm and the unmistakable stench of raw meat and blood. Heart pounding, she stepped backwards into a guarding stance, hands simultaneously slapping the quivering fingers away. _Damn my nerves are jumpy. Ever since that incident…_ From the size of the hand, she had expected a brawler, ready to take down another victim. Instead, there was a shaking tree of a man, skin devoid of all complexion, eyes similarly devoid of emotion save for one. Fear. "Please!"  
>He reached for her arm again. Once again, she batted it away, confidence pouring back into her limbs. "There is a dangerous bikie here! You need to watch out!"<br>Mercedes let out a low chuckle, a gentle smile pecking at the edges of her mouth. The man's eyes widened in horror and desperation. "Please! You have to listen to me! He shoved a piece of paper in my mouth and then just disappeared! Oh God! What if it was poisoned? I'm probably dying right now!"  
>The man's voice rose to a hysterical pitch that would have made countertenors green with envy. "I'M PROBABLY DYING!"<br>Mercedes gave the man a gentle shake. "Relax white boy. It wasn't poisoned."  
>Relief flowed into the man's eyes like rain into a drought-stricken lake, before suspicion clouded it. "How do you know?"<br>Mercedes gave another chuckle. "That's for me to know and you to find out."  
>As the man looked at her slack jawed, she allowed her smile to evolve into a grin. "A woman needs an air of <em><span>mystery<span>_ to her you know?"

Wesley Heights – or Wes as he liked to be called – was not having a good Monday morning. Technically, none of his Monday mornings were good, courtesy of one Rachel Monica Berry. That and the fact that he just disliked Mondays in general. _You and the general population. _He sighed. It was rare that his brain could conjure up private thoughts and _not _arguments to use against said Rachel Monica Berry in Monday morning pre-meetings. Speaking of which…  
>"You are just a selfish perfectionist, a gavel-bashing control freak – frankly, I'm surprised that <em><span>thing <span>_hasn't _flown_ off its handle already – and to top it all off, JEALOUS OF MY TALENT!"  
>Wes glared at Rachel with all the rage in his body. Which wasn't a lot to begin with. But when the gavel was at stake… "First of all, that <em><span>gavel<span>_ is _sacred_ to the Warblers, unlike YOUR REPETITIVE ARGUMENTS!"  
>Rachel scoffed. Before she could open her mouth to shout <em><span>yet another <span>_argument, Wes silenced her. "And second, WHO ON EARTH, IN THEIR RIGHT MINDS WOULD BE JEALOUS OF _YOUR _TALENT TO TURN EVERY. SINGLE. LITTLE. THING. BACK TO YOURSELF?"  
>Rachel's mouth had – by some miracle – slid closed, the force of her shock (<em>or was it anger?<em>) keeping her jowls glued together. Wes cracked a grin. "So stick that in your pipe and smoke it!"  
>An eyebrow twitch of fury was his one answer. Still grinning, Wes allowed himself to sink back into his abandoned seat, heart hammering with an unfamiliar feeling. <em>What is it? Triumph? Smugness? Oh well, who cares; things are finally going my way.<em>

Rachel Berry felt an eyebrow rise in a perfected arch. _Of course it's perfect; I've been doing it since I was three. _Still, perfect or not, it didn't change the fact that she was irritated. And she _never_ got irritated. Not even when one Wesley Lewis Heights was mocking her talent. But then again, no one, not even a gavel-pounding perfection freak, mocked Rachel Berry's talents. She sucked in a breath before flicking her brunette hair over her shoulder. Then she slammed the meeting table with a fist. Instantly, pain began to rush up her arm, an unstoppable waterfall bursting from a dam. _Damn it! Why do these actions always look better in movies? _As she tried to mask the pain pumping in her veins, she glared at Wes – _seriously, who shortens their name like that? _– hoping that he would be intimidated by the fire in her chocolate eyes. Instead, he sat there with a bemused expression, legs crossed as if it was something he did every week. Which wasn't exactly far from the truth. "Rachel, as amusing as your dramatics are, I'm pretty certain that injuring your wrist isn't. At least not for you."  
>She felt shame dust her cheeks with a blush, and the fire in her eyes burned more fiercely than ever, determined not to let her opponent see the crack in her armor. She allowed a scoff to escape her lips as she crossed her arms, praying that the movement would distract her from the ripples of pain. "Oh please, like something like that could hurt me." She gestured to the table.<br>The playful smirk on Wes' face grew wider. "And yet here we are."  
><em>Argh! How does this guy notice EVERYTHING!<em>

William Schuester hummed quietly to himself as his car bounced down the street, muffler igniting sparks with the unforgiving road. As he switched off the ignition, the heavy feeling of regret returned, nibbling seductively at his mind. _Today is the one year anniversary of her… don't think about that! The kids need you right now Will! _The blanket of regret remained, suffocating his rational thoughts until they were a wisp of smoke in a glass of water. _God, I miss her. I miss her smile; the one which lit up a dark room. I miss the toss of her hair and the way it gripped the sunlight. I miss the dance in her walk. I miss the innocence in her eyes. _With a groan, Will rubbed his hazelnut eyes before slipping on his aviators. Even those struck a painful chord in the strings of his heart. _They were the last things she bought me before she… _He sighed. He was definitely going to need a distraction today. Hopefully in the shape of a case. Hopefully in the shape of a BIG case. Big enough so that he could forget and maybe, just maybe, move on. As he finally opened his eyes, he spotted a young man - no several young men - sprinting towards the entrance of the building. One of them had straightened blonde hair; sunny bangs dipping into his line of his sight, an age-bleached satchel, an army green shirt, blue jeans and a pair of dusty combat boots. Another had ruffled midnight hair; inky bangs kissing his lashes, a slightly-muddied maroon jacket ripped at the sleeves, soiled black pants, an off-white T-shirt dirtied at the hem, a dirt-smeared messenger bag, and a pair of scuffed sneakers. Yet another young man charged in, with dark locks combed into a rapidly-disintegrating hairstyle, a bulging duffel bag slung precariously over one shoulder, a worn grey shirt, dark-wash jeans specked with leaf fragments and a hoodie jacket slung over the other shoulder. Will shook his head, massaging his sleep-deprived eyes beneath his glasses and allowed a groan to escape his chapped lips._ Now I've gone down to reading my own kids. Reading them like suspects in a case for God's sake! I – no – we really could do with a case right now. _As he reopened his eyes, he risked a glance at the watch on his wrist, yet another reminder of his past. He groaned once again and forced his still muscles to move, to begin the journey to a new day. _Great. Now I'm going to be later than my students. Not setting a good example Will! _Before his legs could follow his body out of the car, his cell phone rang, the opening lyrics of _Don't Stop Believing_ warbling through the air. With a sigh, Will picked it up. "Private. William Schuester speaking, how may I help you?"

* * *

><p>It was quite a scene. All members of Private had arrived (apart from Finn, David, Puck and Mr. Schue) and the meeting room – once blooming with emptiness – had filled up nicely, air alive with chatter. A chatter that was silenced, when a pair of legs ending in killer stilettos rested themselves on the meeting table. All eyes turned to stare at the owner of the legs, some with looks of fury and annoyance, some with looks of lust and some with looks of <em><span>really-was-that-necessary<span>_? Said owner of the legs remained unfazed, pink nail filer sliding across her nails with ease as she spoke. "Hey, remember that perv that was ogling us when we were in Lima Heights Adjacent?"  
>Rachel scowled. "Please don't remind us of that Santana."<br>Santana shrugged, filer still sliding across her fingertips. "I don't see why not. Seeing as I gave him some payment this morn-"  
>"You WHAT?"<br>Everyone turned towards the voice. Lauren stared, brown eyes magnified by her glasses. She stepped forward, dangerously slow. "Lopez. Are you telling me that you broke a man's nuts, and didn't even invite me?"  
>Santana gave yet another shrug, running the file down the length of her legs – and increasing the amount of testosterone-induced lust – before answering. "Technically, I didn't break his nuts; I gave him one in the stomach and chained him to a drainage pipe. And left him there."<br>The room exploded.  
>"YOU WHAT?"<br>"Santana, that's awesome!"  
>"Way to make him pay!"<br>"Really Satan? I'd thought you'd do _way_ more than that."  
>"I agree with Kurt. But isn't what you did still a bit harsh?"<br>"While I admire your decision to dish out a punishment on someone who _truly_ deserved it, I'm going to have to agree with Blaine here; wasn't that just a _little_ bit too harsh?"  
>"Shut it Wes. Santana, while I admire your bravery, didn't you think about the consequences of your actions?"<br>"Isn't that just rephrasing what he just said?"  
>"No Jeff, I was simply saying it in my own words. Anyway as I was saying-"<br>"What's rephrasing? Is it when you write down phrases again and again? Like what Ms. Hagberg made us do in English class?"  
>"No Brittany, that's-"<br>"GUYS!"  
>The whole room settled into silence once more. Mr. Schue was standing at the door, along with a sheepish Finn and a <em><span>very<span>_ sheepish Puck and David (the former of the two trying – and failing – to hide a semi-destroyed bottle that reeked of baking soda and vinegar). "We have a case."

"The objective is simple: Investigate and Follow the activities of the singer, Ms. Shelby Corcoran-"  
>"Wait! <em><span>The<span>_ Shelby Corcoran?"  
>"Yes Rachel. Why?"<br>"Mr. Schue, she is one of _the_ most influential singers of the _decade_. Why are we even _thinking_ about investigating her?"  
>"Because Rachel, it is at the request of her husband: Dustin Goolsby."<br>"The music video director?"  
>"The very same. Apparently he's asking us to keep track of his wife's activities because he has 'fears of infidelity.'"<br>Rachel and Kurt scoffed simultaneously, causing two certain individuals to break into quiet smiles. "Anyway, the point is: We have a case. Now we just need people to do it. Any volunteers?"  
>"Yes. Me."<br>All heads turned in surprise.

Quinn Fabray stared back at them, emerald eyes shining with the unknown. "What? Mr. Schue asked for volunteers, so…here I am."  
>The aforementioned person smacked his lips nervously, the sound producing an impossible echo throughout the silent air of the room. "Quinn, you know you can't do that; you're too close to the target."<br>Quinn's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "She's not just a target; she's my baby's adoptive _mom_."  
>"And that's why you can't take this case Quinn; you're far too emotionally involved."<br>Quinn's eyes flashed again, a dangerous source of strength flooding them. "Then can I at least stay informed about the case? Like it states in our code of conduct: '_everyone_ (uninvolved/involved) must be informed about all aspects of the case'?"  
>Mr. Schue pursed his lips once more, teeth worrying his bottom lip. "I guess it won't do any harm. <em><span>But<span>_ you are _not_ allowed to get involved in any way. If you do, I'll have no other choice but to suspend you until the case is finished or closed." He cast his attention to the remaining occupants of the room. "Any objections?"  
>Silence. "Good, now, any other volunteers?"<p>

Quinn Fabray slid down to the wooden floor beside her bed, tears lapping at the banks of her eyes. In the end, David, Finn, Nick and Santana had taken the case. _And been accepted of course. _She mentally kicked herself for the thought. _Of course they got accepted! After all, they don't have a baby that happens to be the adoptive daughter of the target! Anyway, this is NOT THE TIME TO BE WALLOWING IN SELF-PITY! YOU'VE STILL GOT A LIFE TO LIVE!_ Her body ignored the command, as it had always done. She fingered the hem of her dress, desperate for a distraction. Her mind unhelpfully obliged. _Cheer up. You might still make the team; Goolsby finalizes the contract tomorrow, you still have a-_ Quinn interrupted the thought process, slamming a fist into the vintage chest of drawers beside her, tears escaping their dams as she did. She knew; in the deepest abysses of her heart she knew: she wasn't getting on the team, no matter what. Gingerly, she withdrew her arm, numbness battling pain for dominance in its nerves. What she saw tore at her heart: the bottom drawer had opened from the impact of frustration, revealing an age-yellowed photo. The photo of her holding a baby Beth. The only photo of her and Beth. As tears spilled down her cheeks, Quinn curled up on the floor, sobs ripping through her body, fingers clutching uselessly at the photo. _Beth. Beth. Beth. Beth. Beth. My baby. My baby Beth._

_Next chapter:  
>Rumor has it there's a child abuser in town. Rumor has it that a rumor writer has gone missing. With rumors flying here, there and everywhere, who will crack separating fact from fiction? With what consequences? And when someone winds up dead, who will the rumor ghosts accuse? <em>


	3. Rumor Has It

Hello! Everything and Anything here! In case anyone got confused, this is NOT a Glee/Private AU.  
>First of all, I would like to thank ALL readers andor reviewers; you motivate me and give me the strength to fight through writer's block.  
>Second of all, I would like to dedicate this chapter once again, to everyone who needs someone to light a candle in their lives. Stay strong, and don't forget, there are people out there in the world who support, care and love you. Don't forget to talk to someone if you ever feel like you need to – it's not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of trust and love. Most of all, don't forget that you are loved in this world.<br>Third of all, if I mislead anyone on the previous 'very long chapter business', I apologize; the story looked much longer in my Word Document.  
>Other than that, feel free to read and review and carry on with life!<br>Oh, and Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year!

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own Glee (this includes all the songs they have covered), songs by the phenomenal Adele (the title of this chapter comes from her song Rumor Has It), Wikipedia, TiVo or the Private Series by James Patterson**

**Trigger(s):** Swearing and Death

**A/N:**** I meant to put this up earlier but this chapter also contains mentions/rumors of abuse. I am deeply sorry that I didn't put the warning up earlier (my Internet stuffed up before I could), and if I hurt anyone, I sincerely apologise.**

**Rumor Has It:**

A baby's wail whipped through the cold bitter air, a merciless lash that struck the heartstrings of all who heard it. As the wail dissolved into haunting echoes, Quinn stumbled through the darkness, desperate to find that baby before that wail – oh that _horrible_ wail – started again, before that wail ripped at her heart like a ravenous wolf, before the wail slapped her until no more tears could fall. She heard the deep rasps for breath as someone – _the baby? Her? _– recovered from the shock. Quinn dashed the tears from her eyes as if doing so would tear away the blindfold of black that obscured her vision. The rasps for breath grew louder. Heart hammering with hope, Quinn continued, praying that she would get there in time. She felt her bare feet beat faster, the trot turning into an anxious gallop. She heard the rasps grow louder. Then she heard the cruel slap that ran through the air like electricity, the startled cry of the baby that kicked her heart into her throat and the horrible wail that lunged at her body. Quinn felt herself falling backwards, the wail having evolved into a monster, one that shoved her to the ground, before ripping at her flesh…

Quinn sat up with a gasp, pale hands gripping her throat, apple-green eyes widened from terror. All of a sudden, the blanket tangled around her legs and waist was a python suffocating the life out of her. The mattress was a crocodile, dragging her to drown in the deep depths of the unknown. With a final wheeze, Quinn allowed her hands to drop to her sides, the pounding beat of her blood heavy in her ears. _It's only a nightmare. It's only a nightmare. _She repeated the thought to herself, the phrase rapidly becoming a mantra, the mantra metamorphosing into a prayer. Because how could something as terrifying, as _real_ as that, be a figment of an overworked mind? And as Quinn sat quivering in the island of her single bed, sweat drying and leaving salty trails on her clammy skin, the unanswered question still spun in her mind, as innocent as sugar. _Why did it scare you so much? And why are you so afraid of it becoming reality?_

* * *

><p>"Are you sure about this Santana?"<br>"Of course I'm sure Frakenteen, cause unlike you, I actually check my media sources."  
>"Says the girl who once used a Wikipedia article which 'needed additional citations for verification'."<br>Santana threw her patented death glare at Nick, who immediately shied away, shoulders hunched in fear. "Well, Gargler, _this_ one doesn't need any 'additional citations for verification'." With that, Santana casually tossed the hot-pink manila folder onto the desk, various newspaper clippings tumbling out of its jaws, a waterfall spilling from a dam, albeit a very small one. David frowned and leaned forward, long fingers edging one of the clippings towards him. What he saw surprised him.

**SHELBY CORCORAN: SINGING SWEETHEART OR SWEETHEART ABUSER?  
><strong>And that was just one. David's dark eyes scanned the remainder of the clippings and articles, eyes widening in shock with each one. He saw his teammates – apart from Santana who stood there with a melancholy and uncomfortable look in her eyes - do the same. The headlines screamed at him, demanding his – and Finn's and Thad's – complete attention, their voices impossibly loud, and their bodies impossibly large and bold.  
><strong>MUSICAL MOTHER, MOTHER OF MUSIC OR MURDEROUS MOTHER?<br>CORCORAN BABY SEEN WITH BRUISES  
>BABY BETH BASHED?<br>SINGER OR SINNER?  
>SINGING SENSATION… OR SOMETHING MORE SINISTER?<br>**One headline, one accusation, one _rumor_ after another leapt at them, an unrelenting army of words. Even as his eyes scanned the yellowed and the fresh clippings, the same eyes that were scanning for the sources that possibly, did not exist, David felt his head spin, a hurricane of thoughts ravaging his mind. _Is this actually legit? How can anyone, anyone, do this? _But deep in his heart, David knew, and when he looked at their faces – Finn's of confusion, Thad's of shock and Santana's of discomfort – he realised that they all knew: _Because people could._ Suddenly, they heard the unmistakable creak of a door behind them. As one, the entire team turned, hands already snatching at the pieces of paper, dread filling their stomachs like a sour whiskey. Quinn Fabray stood there, her entire frame quivering from emotion, be it shock, terror or anger. Her green eyes were glassed with unshed tears; eyes which gave nothing away. Her arms were wrapped protectively around herself, nails biting into the bare skin of her upper arms. Then she spun on her heeled sandals and left without a second glance.

* * *

><p><em>No. It can't be!<em> She ignored the shouts of protest as she muscled her way into the packed elevator. _This can't be happening. It CAN'T! _She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, trying to keep the sobs and shouts of protest from escaping from the prison of her throat. As the elevator crawled down the shaft, making far too many stops, the thoughts continued to tear at Quinn, relentless harpies desperate to bring its prey down. _Worthless. You can't even protect your own daughter! Your own flesh and blood! Worthless excuse for a human being. What kind of human being doesn't keep track of their own daughter's life anyway? Oh that's right: the kind of human being you are!_ She forced her eyes shut, forced the tears to creep reluctantly back into their ducts, forced herself to not cry out in frustration as the elevator slowed teasingly. With a final _ping_, the doors eased open, and a female figure dashed out of the crowded elevator and out of the building, ignoring the cries of protest and surprise, desperation and anger fuelling her with the energy she needed. The female figure felt her mind leap back to the early hours of the morning, pulling the memories of the nightmare back into the surface of her mind. The nightmare that had somehow become reality. She blanched and tripped, stumbling forward, hands reaching out frantically, for a handhold, any handhold. All of a sudden, she felt a strong arm grip her skinny wrist in a vice-like hold, steadying her immediately. Quinn frowned. The grip felt strangely familiar, as though it belonged to an era earlier in her life. When she looked at its owner, she realised that it did.

Puck's eyes grew wide as they registered the running figure of a distraught Quinn Fabray dashing down the corridors of the office and out the door, sandaled feet inaudible on the carpeted floor. _Oh my God, she's going to do something crazy again!_ His mind immediately scrambled back to the post-birth/giving-up-Beth crisis which had involved breakdowns, midnight awakenings, sobbing frenzies and visits from a counselor. And friends. A _lot_ of visits and support from friends. _No way is that happening to us again. Not if the Puckster can help it._ With that, Puck sprang out of his seat, concern pumping energy into his cramped limbs. As he dashed out the door and into the hallway, he heard the distinct rumble of closing elevator doors. Groaning in frustration, he continued his dash down the not-so-empty hallway, ignoring the curious glances tossed absentmindedly his way, mind focused on one thing: beating Quinn to the ground floor. And taking out the No. 1 slot on the Halo scoreboard. With oomph_, _he pushed open the fire escape door – _Alarm protected my ass! –_ and dashed down, sneakers and palms striking up a percussion tutti on the bare concrete steps and icy metal railing, the breath and heart in his body dancing to the erratic rhythm. With a final _clack_, he shoved the final obstacle – the ground floor door – and tumbled out into the lobby and stumbled out into the street, eyes zeroing in on the dashing figure ahead, a final thought ripping through his mind as he raced towards her. _Crap! I forgot to save! _Then the rational part of his mind kicked the gamer part out. _Who freaking cares? There are more important things than Halo in this world! _He picked up his speed as he saw Quinn stumble and fall. _Like that…_

Quinn gasped, choking the escaping tears back into their dens as she stared into Puck's eyes. She felt the tears escape as a choked stutter. "D-D-D-Did you hear?"  
>She felt the vine – still young and strong - around her wrist tighten. "No. And I don't want to hear it Quinn!"<br>Quinn ripped her arm away, her once-beautiful face dirtied by a sneer. "Not even if it involves Beth?" The words were hissed out between clenched teeth. She took a step forward, frustration clouding her thoughts. "Not even if it involves YOUR DAUGHTER?" The stem of the vine was clutching at her wrist again. She shook it away, then gave its roots a hard shove. "Well fuck you Puckerman! You may not care about her but **I DO**!" And with another shove and a growl, Quinn spun around, determined to… _to do what?_ She gritted her teeth and sauntered on. _To protect my daughter. To find out if those-_ she forced her mind to shut out the memories. _If those were true. _

Puck gasped as he watched the once-love-of-his-life stalk off, about to do who-knew-whatever. It was official now; it was serious, way more serious than the post-birth/giving-up-Beth crisis. _Quinn just swore for crying out loud! And she never swears! Maybe it's something her mom taught her; manners or something like that, but still Quinn just swore! And that means it's time to whip out the ICE ammo. _He trotted after Quinn, desperately trying to read the eyes that he had once admired and loved, the eyes which were now opaque with a mother's fear and anger. Because that was what she was now, Puck realised. A mother. A mother who was about to do all-sorts-of-crazy for her child. Puck made a final lunge and gripped her arm once again, a lasso on the neck of a wild horse. As the enraged mare twisted and bucked, he felt his own leash tighten, tighten until she finally stopped. And when she did, he spoke, "You want to know the truth Quinn? Then I'll tell you: I **DO **care about Beth, I **DO** care about our daughter, but do you know who I care for more than that? You. You Quinn."  
>The mare's eyes narrowed into a glare. "So you care about me more than you care about our daughter, our flesh and blood? Who by the way, is getting <strong>ABUSED<strong>?"  
>Puck reeled back, the leash still tight around the mare's neck. "Look here, I don't know what's going on or what you heard. But I'm going to find out alright? I'm going to check if those rumors that you heard are true and if they are? Well we'll figure it out then."<br>The wild mare's eyes began to soften, the animal inside them vanishing, the girl within them reappearing. Puck breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. _At least she's back. For now._ Slowly, he loosened his grip on her arm, senses suddenly hyperaware of the sweat shared between their skins, of the breath shared between their bodies and the bond shared between their souls. He continued, taking advantage of the slightly awkward silence between them. "But right now, you just gotta keep it together. For Beth. For us. For all of us."  
>And without waiting for a response, Puck began to gently lead the very confused Quinn back into the stable of the office. <em>When did I get so smart? I wonder if getting put in adult situations improves your maturity? I guess I'll have to find out.<em>

* * *

><p>"Okay guys, while Santana, Finn, Nick and David are busy on the Shelby Corcoran case, I would like to make an announcement: we have another case!"<br>The room erupted in cheers and applause, high-fives and grins, the candy of happiness. As the festivities died down rapidly, Mr. Schue continued, "Investigate the disappearance of Suzy Pepper, at the request of her colleague Jacob Ben Israel."  
>The hushed giggles and chatter silenced at the drop of a brick. Rachel raised a hand, as delicate as a French aristocrat. Mr. Schue sighed. "Yes Rachel?"<br>"Is this the Jacob Ben Israel from the Muckraker Magazine?"  
>"Would it make any difference if it was?"<br>"Of course it would! Mr. Schue, the Muckraker Magazine and its reporters are known to be the most unreliable tabloid newspaper and tabloid newspaper staff in the whole of Ohio, if not the whole of Allen County!"  
>"It's true; apparently they only get one reliable story for every twenty-five unreliable ones. I honestly don't know how they stay in business."<br>"Good researching Warbler Kurt Hummel!"  
>"Is Kurt's real name Warbler?"<br>"Enough! Rachel, Kurt, Wes, Brittany, calm down. The point is, we have a case."  
>"Which nobody is willing to volunteer for."<br>"Wow. Mood killer Rachel."  
>"Lauren-"<br>"Who's mood? Is he someone who got murdered? Is Rachel the murderer? Are we investigating it?"  
>"Brittany, no, no one's murdered. Come on guys, don't be this way."<br>An awkward silence and tension filled the room, both as noticeable as autumn mist. Mr. Schue sighed once again. "What if I told you that Suzy Pepper was working on a controversial story with her colleague, the colleague who is requesting our assistance?"  
>Jeff groaned. "Mr. Schue, it's common knowledge that the Muckraker Magazine's 'controversial stories' are <em><span>all<span>_ rumors, if not wildly exaggerated accounts of a legal low-key incident."  
>"Well, rumor or not, Suzy Pepper's still missing. And one of us is going to find her."<br>"Then I'll do it."  
>Everyone turned to glance at the ice-eyed boy with fire in his eyes. "I'll do it if no one else will."<br>Artie raised an eyebrow, a quizzical look swimming in his gentle eyes. "But didn't you just kinda diss the Muckraker just then?"  
>Kurt sighed, tugging a chestnut lock out of its prison of hairspray. "Yes, yes I did but I was also merely stating facts. And while the Muckraker Magazine is nothing short of a poorly-structured rumor mill and an attention ho, it's still a request to find a missing person. Attention-seeking reporter or not."<br>Tina smiled, gentleness lighting up her glowing face as she did. "Kurt's right; it's still a missing person case." She turned towards the aforementioned individual. "Kurt, I know I'm busy trying to close up my own case, but if you need any assistance with bugs and whatnot, just come and tell me."  
>Kurt grinned, reaching across the narrow space between them to shake her hand. "I'll be honored to."<br>A loud theatrical cough interrupted the conversation. Rachel stood up, back military straight as she sauntered around the table towards Kurt. "Kurt, in the spirit of friendship, I'll also be honored to help you with the case if necessary."  
>Lauren laughed, a knife of a cry that slashed through the lightening atmosphere of the room. "Berry, you just bashed the Muckraker <em><span>and<span>_ loudly stated that no one wanted to take the case and now you want in? You must be even more psycho than I originally thought!"  
>Rachel thrust a useless glare at Lauren, eyes narrowing in exaggerated rage. "Believe what you want Zizes, but I, like Kurt was simply stating the known facts about the Muckraker. And regardless of those facts, I'm going to assist Kurt with the case should he need it. In the spirit of friendship of course."<br>The remaining members of the room merely shrugged this off their shoulders, ears long immunized to Rachel's rambling speeches. Then a businesslike clearing of the throat whispered through the feather-light atmosphere. Which was accompanied by the unmistakable tap of the gavel that was used to keep order in the weekly-to-fortnightly dramas. "Then I volunteer in the spirit of friendship as well." Wes grinned, a mischievous tint in his ebony eyes, the gavel twisting in his violinist fingers. Before another sound could be created, Mr. Schue jolted out of his seat and slapped his palms together. "Right! We've got our team and backup! Let's get going!"

* * *

><p><em><span>Breaking News: Earlier this evening, our very own Brad Isell stumbled upon a grisly discovery in the back alleys of Lima Heights Adjacent: the dead body of a young girl that has been identified as Muckraker Magazine reporter Suzy Pepper. Although Brad is unable to give us any details due to the issuing of a gag order, foul play has been suspected. We will be providing updates throughout the evening. <span>_

_What!_ As the rain raced the wind in the world outside, Kurt's head snapped up from the file he was reading, the muscles in his sore neck screaming, and the locks of hair ripping free of their hairspray handcuffs and tumbling haphazardly onto his forehead. Fingers fumbling, he pressed the 'rewind' button on the TiVo remote, hoping earnestly that he had heard wrong. He hadn't. The words burned holes in his ears, mingling with his thoughts, thoughts that revolved around the 'controversial case'.Hurriedly, he picked up the file in his skintight-jeans-clad lap, the file that Jacob had handed to him via Mr. Schue earlier that day. The file that contained the 'information and research' for the controversial story. The file that he had been reading and rereading for the last three hours. Quickly, he picked through the unorganized pile, looking for something, anything that stood out. Nothing did. Groaning, he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, edging the reading glasses that sat there back into their original roost. _Okay Hummel, think. What's the chance that this so called 'controversial case' got her killed? Heck, what's the chance that the case isn't just a load of crap like the others? _He let out a forced laugh, the taste bitter in his mouth. _Probably slim to none. Still, there's a chance, even though it's slim. _Forcing his tensed shoulders to relax and his body to ignore the adolescent headache poking inside his skull, he focused once more on the information in front of him, eyes once again picking each individual word apart. As his eyes searched for the tidbits of facts among the rumors, his vision began to blur at the edges from concentration and his ears became filled with an all too familiar tune. _Great. Hallucinations. Further signs that my brain is turning to mush from reading all of this. _The tune continued to echo in his mind, its melody became increasingly familiar. _Wait._ With a cry, his fingers seized the vibrating mobile phone off the table, picking up at the final note. "Kurt Hummel speaking." Kurt felt himself pant out the words, trying to calm down his racing heart and booming headache. "Mr. Schue? Yeah, yeah I just found out. He what? Oh, okay then, are Wes, Tina and Rachel coming as well? Okay thanks."  
>With a groan, Kurt hung up, dropping back into the cushions of the sofa, exhaustion dragging him into a waking sleep, the sounds of rain and television whispering in his ears.<p>

_What!_ The spoonful of canned soup halted in its journey to Mr. Schue's mouth as he digested the words that he had just heard. _Dead? B-But that's-_ Don't Stop Believing rang through the air, effectively derailing his train of thoughts. Sighing, he set down his spoon, replacing it with the singing culprit. "Private, William Schue-"  
>"MR. SCHUE! THEY KILLED HER. THEY KIIIIIILED HER!"<br>The high-pitched screech on the other end of the line was unmistakable, a vocal fingerprint. The high-pitched wail of someone whose body was gripped in the chokehold of panic. Someone, who just happened to be a client. As he tried to make sense of the crazed ramblings, Mr. Schue sighed, fingers tracing the frayed surface of the tablecloth. _This is why I should have signed every one of us up for that 'Therapy and Application' lecture instead of that booty camp._ "MR. SCHUE! DO YA HEAR ME? I NEED YOU TO INVESTIGATE HER DEATH NOW! NOW! BEFORE THEY COME FOR ME!"  
>Reality struck him hard in the face, or more accurately, in the ears. "I'm sorry, can you please repeat that?"<br>A breathy shaky sigh crackled over the connection, the fear in it as obvious as the air that he inhaled. "I just told you," The voice on the other end was slightly calmer now, the panicked animal in them slowly withdrawing into its den to rest. "I need you to investigate Suzy's death. I don't trust the cops; one of them threatened to send me to Thailand once." A ragged breath interrupted the fast-paced speech. "I'll give you anything. I'll give you my house! I'LL KILL MY PARENTS AND I'LL GIVE YOU MY HOUSE!" And panic had grabbed him by the throat again.  
>Mr. Schue frowned, the poison of worry slowly but steadily coursing through his veins. "We'll be happy to help but I really don't think your house is necce-"<br>"So it's a deal?" For the first time since connection, hope seemed to be entering the conversation, despair stealthily evaporating away. _I'm really going to regret this._ "Yes. But I'm going to need more information-"  
>"No problem! I'll give you everything! I'll send it all to you!" Then before Mr. Schue could respond with an increasingly-rare logical reply, silence became his companion. He allowed his grip around the phone to loosen, a python showing impossible mercy. He stared at his meal in front of him, as cold and dead as Suzy herself. As cold and dead as he had been once. <em>Right after she left.<em> He groaned, planting the heel of his palm into his closed eyelids. He had a lot of calls to make. As his fingers scrolled through his _Private – Employees_ list, the rain continued to sing outside, voice harmonizing with the shrieks of the strengthening breeze.

_No! This can't be happening! _Jacob Ben Israel leapt backwards from the TV screen, as if it could reach out with clawed hands and drag him into the depths of the unknown. He felt his bare feet curl into the ripped fabric of the couch. _Suzy can't be dead!_ Fingers scrambling, he dug into his pockets for his phone, relief dripping through his heart as his nails scratched the cool shell, a mild sedative to the pure panic pumping through his body. _I'm next! They killed Suzy and I'm next. Unless… _He felt his heart surge with hope as his call connected and the voice of Will Schuester spoke into his ear. _Okay you can do this Jacob. You managed to grow a perfect Jewfrow, you can do this. You can tell him to do it. _He didn't count on the short-term effects of the drugs of Panic and Shock coursing through his veins. But he did it. Eventually. He felt his brain throw a fist in triumph. _Yes! YES! Jacob Ben Israel just told someone what to do! _Suddenly, a solid launched itself at his window, cloaked in the cloak of rain. Jacob screamed, a short high-pitched wail escaping his throat as he leapt off the couch, feet tangling themselves in the stained carpet. _Oh God! Don't let me die!_ He screamed again as a hail of liquid splattered against the same window, staining the glass with clear hypnotic patterns. Jacob backed away, hands curled into improper fists, body shaking with fear. As he planned a way to escape, the rain continued to whistle, the fingers of the wind catapulting unlucky solids into the night.

Their breath came out in ragged gasps. _No. NO! She wasn't supposed to die! She wasn't! But she should have never gotten involved in the first place, never should have stuck her nose into places it didn't belong! If she hadn't then she would still be…_ The figure groaned, sliding down to the wooden floor until they were a hyperventilating puddle of a human being in a puddle of rainwater. Their fingers raked over their face and hair, nails nipping at the flesh and drawing blood. A hiss added to the symphony of pain as the bloody ink began to ooze greedily out of the rip, mingling eagerly with the rainwater. The figure gasped as the memories – _the horrid horrid memories – _came flooding back. _The sudden realization and fear in her eyes. The adrenaline-charged cry as she had lashed out, hard enough to stun. The gurgled cry as she had tried to run, the unflattering argyle outfit hugging her body as she did. The panic as the fingers trembled at the trigger. The silenced __pffts__ of the gun. The sudden halt of the girl. The clatter as her oversized glasses fell unceremoniously to the ground, along with her lifeless body. The shock at the grisly actions performed. The full-blown panic clawing at the mind. The desperate actions performed to try and delay the inevitable discovery. The relief at the discovery of protective layers, the layers which barred the accusing evidence from marking the body. The enhanced relief at their disposal, along with the smiling gun. The nerve-shattering trip back._ The figure groaned and lifted their head, fingers, dragging at their tangled hair, lungs still grabbing for air. The blood continued to drip down their cheek and their throat, a lazy river of red. The fingers hurriedly brushed at the blood, smudging the trail into a mask. Panic settled in again, clothing the mind like the ill-fitting garment it was. _Must scrub off. The blood. Must wash up. Must wash off all evidence. Must distance myself. From her. Must distance myself from her. Must. Must lie low. Act normal. Must find. Find an explanation. An alibi. Must create an alibi. Must deal with the loose threads. That remain_. As the body worked to obey the commands of a mind gone autopilot, the rain roared in the world outside, the almost-gale howling a twisted ballad.

_Next chapter:  
>When tensions and unresolved feelings are running high in the world of Private, a high-profile case isn't going to help. Especially when married to a murder case. When Private attempts to juggle both, heads begin to butt, tempers begin to flare and hidden feelings get laid out in the open. And a blast from the past isn't going to be helping things along either… <em>


End file.
